


The Winter Prince

by ishafel



Series: The Winter Prince [2]
Category: Harry Potter - Rowling
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-01-25
Updated: 2010-01-25
Packaged: 2017-10-06 16:45:59
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 3
Words: 10,525
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/55769
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ishafel/pseuds/ishafel
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sometimes the good guys are worse than the bad guys.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. 1

He bit his tongue, stumbling, as he Apparated into Hogsmeade; a small pain but it stayed with him. Ever after desperation tasted of blood, or maybe it was the other way around. He needed help, and more than that he needed advice, and he did not know where to find either. He had been a spy for only six months, and much of that time he had spent at his parents' house in Surrey, or at school. It had seemed a game to him, a small forfeit to redeem his father's sins. A dozen portkeys, a password for every occasion, a codebook, a camera that looked like a cigarette case and a gun that looked like a camera: the paraphernalia of a modern spy; a game for old men. And now when he most needed him Dumbledore was away--an academic conference in Amsterdam--and he did not know whom else to turn to.

There was really only one person who might help him. One man in all Dumbledore's army powerful enough, if Draco could only make him believe, to rescue Snape. The officers drank at the Unlucky Griffin on Hexham Street in Hogsmeade, they told him at headquarters. Harry Potter was bound to be there, they would all be there, this time of night. Draco was amazed at how easy the information had been to get. No chance, ever, of finding half a dozen soldiers together in a public place unless they were on duty. No chance a servant would relay such information to a man wearing Ron Weasley's body, when Voldemort had captured Ron three weeks ago. But they were and they had, and so Draco made his way to Hogsmeade, uneasily aware that the Polyjuice Potion was close to wearing off.

The plan was Gryffindor-simple, because Draco hadn't had time to make up a better one and this lot would just arse it up anyway. He had to find Potter, and convince him that Snape was a spy who had been rumbled and needed rescue, before his potion wore off. He had to lead Potter to Snape's cell, help Potter free him, and send them to safety and without compromising his own cover. He had calculated he had about ten minutes left, after which he would revert to being Draco Malfoy. Somehow he had to make it look as if that, not the other, was the result of Polyjuice. He would have to be quick, he would have to be clever, and he would have to be careful. He was almost enjoying himself, as he pulled open the heavy door and tried to move like the Weasel.

There they were, as he had been told they would be, six or seven of them in the dark uniforms of the Resistance. He was surprised to find he knew them all: Finnegan lighting a cigarette, Potter downing a shot, Longbottom looking as out of place as ever. They did not look so different from Voldemort's junior officers, except that they seemed genuinely glad of one another's company. All at once he was glad to be on their side, glad that for once he would be right, glad to be among that shining company even if no one knew it but himself and Dumbledore and Snape.

They did not believe it was Ron at first, but he could see they wanted to. Nine minutes and Potter eyed him warily, seven and his arm was around Draco's shoulders while Draco spun a web of lies to draw him in. Snape had saved him, and now he was paying for it, Voldemort would kill him-- Four minutes, and they would have followed him to hell, and brought Snape back on their shoulders. Three and a half and they stopped talking abruptly and he knew the change had come early. He tried to convince them--oh how he tried--but he knew that they knew he was Draco. They would think it was a trap, of course; so would he in their places. Damn Dumbledore. The old man's secrecy would cost him his best spy.

Even then he was not really afraid. These were the good guys, after all. Seamus Finnegan, Neville Longbottom, Thomas, Potter, Smith, Finch-Fletchley. Schoolmates. They'd rough him up a bit and Dumbledore would turn him loose. Draco let them drag him to the wretched apartment Thomas and Finnegan shared, in the cellar of headquarters in London. He noticed, with amusement, that there was an enormous iron cage in the middle of one of the extra rooms. They'd been keeping big pets, these lads. Perhaps a werewolf?

"My codename is Goblin. The friend of a friend sent me," he told them; the words Dumbledore had taught him. He did not worry when they hit him; after all he was not really a Death Eater and there was nothing he could tell them he had not already planned to tell Dumbledore. But they kept hitting him. He thought it was Finnegan and Potter, mostly; one of them broke his nose and the other one blacked an eye. He could feel his cheekbone starting to swell, an how was he supposed to go back to Voldemort like this? He'd not realized they would concentrate on his face.

After a while--ten minutes, five, an hour--his knees gave out. He was not quite unconscious, but he couldn't answer when they called his name. One of them went after water, and another one kicked him in the ribs, hard. Even then he was not really worried. Let them kick him with their shiny steel-toed boots; their master would be back soon to call them to heel. They went on kicking him, until he gagged and threw up, and then they threw icy water on him. They did not even try to get information from him, and when he tried to give it one of them backhanded him hard enough to split his lip. They had snapped his wand very early on, of course, either in the pub or in the street just after. Now they snapped his fingers.

The pain in his hand--his left hand, his wand hand--was agonizing. He passed out, and they kicked him awake. This time his ribs broke. He retched again, and could not stop, and could not breathe. "Please," he managed, and even he was not sure what he was begging for.

Finnegan laughed and dropped a cigarette butt onto Draco's chest. "What's the magic word, Malfoy?" he asked.

He did not expect that Draco would know it--he still did not believe Draco was a spy--but Draco did. "Unity," he gasped out. "The magic word is Unity. My codename is Goblin. The friend of a friend sent me. You--I'm on your side."

Potter stared down at him, Finnegan beside him. Some of the others had gone, but there were still at least four. More than he could have dealt with, even had he been unhurt and armed. "Not my side, you're not," the golden boy said, and his voice was cold. "I wouldn't have a treacherous little worm like you on my side." He turned to Finnegan. "What do we do with him now?" he asked. "The old man won't be back for a week."

You could let him go, Draco thought at them, but telepathy had never been one of his talents and besides he was having trouble focusing. He closed his eyes, and wished it were possible to do magic without a wand. But he had learned control over his magic the way most children learned to control their tempers; he could no more give way now than masturbate in public. He would have to trust that they wouldn't kill him. Surely they wouldn't kill him: these were the heroes, officers in the army of the righteous. Death Eaters would have followed the beating with Unforgivables, but his captors were Muggle-born and they had something different in mind for him.

He did not realize what it was they meant to do until they had begun it. He fought them then, with all the strength he had, but it was too little and far too late. They pinned him to the floor, one of them with a knee in the small of his back, they bound his wrists and tore off his clothes, and they took turns raping him. Finnegan, who was the biggest, went first; he tore something in Draco that had not been meant to tear and the pain was immediate and agonizing. Nothing had ever hurt like this; he had not even imagined there could be pain like this. It made Crucio merely a word. When they had all had him once they came back for more and at the very end they pissed on him. He lay on the concrete floor in a puddle of piss and blood and vomit and he hoped that now they would kill him.

But death was a mercy to be denied him. They dragged him to the cage and left him with nothing but the rags of his cloak to cover his body; left him lying face down on the cold steel of the cage. He could not have moved if he had wanted to, and he could not seem to want to. They were gone; he might have heard words like duty and patrol but he was no longer sure of his hearing or his mind. Time passed in odd jagged fragments of consciousness, and he had no way of measuring it because there seemed to be no natural light. Somewhere a clock ticked steadily, relentlessly, and the sound maddened him whenever he became aware of it.

Mostly there was only him, only Draco. And Draco was only a thing, a great mass of hurt that could not even be localized. Oh, his broken fingers hurt, his broken ribs, his nose, the cigarette burn on his chest, the footprints on his legs, and inside he hurt, too. But he could not have selected any one of those things, could not have separated them from the wound that was his mind.

He had never seen anyone raped before, even; this was one perversion that the Death Eaters did not practice. Perhaps they had other ways of proving themselves, or perhaps it had simply never occurred to them. Voldemort liked his victims broken or dead, but he would have despised this Muggle method as inefficient and overly personal. Had he unmasked Draco as a spy, he would have killed him or destroyed his mind; no doubt he had killed Snape already. Yet beside this, it might have been a kindness.

Very much later Dean Thomas came in, alone. By then the smell in the basement had become an entity in and of itself. He used a cleaning spell on the floor and when that had proved insufficient he scrubbed it with soap and water and something that made Draco think of a forest in winter. He even threw several buckets of lukewarm water on Draco, and used the spell on the cloak. Afterward he cut Draco's bonds and left him a tin pitcher full of clean water, three hard dinner rolls on a white plate, and the now-empty bucket. He must have meant it well, though Draco was not disposed to be grateful.

Later still, Potter and Finnegan staggered in, the one half-sober and the other just off guard duty. They flipped a coin to see who would have Draco first and Potter won. Draco had not meant to fight him; surely it was best not to, best to let his wounds heal with their suspicions. Best to take them unawares. But the moment Potter touched him his body took over: he clawed and bit at Potter's hands and face, and then at Finnegan's, until they kicked him into submission. When Potter came into him they both screamed. Draco must have passed out, after that; when he opened his eyes they were gone.

He spent the next day or so shivering on the floor of his cage, unable to do much more than breathe. Thomas brought him food he couldn't eat and emptied his bucket, but he made no attempt to speak to Draco and avoided his eyes. Draco thought that if he ever got free he might not insist on killing him himself. The others, particularly Potter and Finnegan, would have to die in the most painful way possible. He was considering the merits of becoming an Animagus and eating their bodies, when they arrived--four of them this time--to rape him again.

He fought them this time, too, with all the last desperate strength he could muster. Thomas came out in the middle of it and yelled at them to stop and Draco thought for a moment that they would. But Potter announced haughtily that Draco deserved it, that after all he was little more than an animal. "He would do worse to us; God knows what he's done to Ron." Draco wanted to say that Ron had died cleanly, that not even an animal deserved such a fate as this.

Thomas got in ahead of him. He shook his head wearily as he said, "They called people like me animals too, once. No one deserves what you are doing to him. You have made our side less even than his." He went out, closing the door behind him; after a moment in which none of them moved Finnegan ran after him. Draco took advantage of their shock to pull himself to his knees and got in a lucky blow. Longbottom fell, his head hitting the bars with a sound like the clash of cymbals, but there were still Potter and Smith and they flattened him.

After that time passed more slowly than ever, or perhaps did not pass at all. He had no way to mark the days as they went by; the hours the young officers kept were erratic and it was always dark in his cage. Finnegan and Potter raped him fourteen or fifteen times, over the span of what might have been a fortnight. Thomas did not come at all and Longbottom and Smith and Finch-Fletchely came only once or twice. Finnegan had taken over Draco's care and feeding; he shoved in scraps on plates made of something foamy and white and used a spell to empty the bucket.

Draco began to heal, slowly and painfully. He had set his broken fingers himself, binding them as tightly as he could with pieces torn from his cloak. There was nothing he could do for his ribs, his nose, his cheekbone; nothing but let them be. He could feel that there were odd painful lumps on his face, and he knew that they were not healing well, but at least the stabbing pain when he breathed began to ease. Only the cigarette burns, the first on his chest and the later ones on his arms and the insides of his thighs, really troubled him. Without water he could do nothing to clean them and they grew infected and crusty.

The fevers they caused gave him terrible nightmares, and he had begun to cough and not be able to stop. He was losing weight, too; he could see that his wrists were narrow as a child's, his summer tan fading to ivory so that he glowed in the darkness. Another week or so went by. Potter and Finnegan came less often; they had begun to lose interest the day he stopped fighting them. "He's beginning to enjoy it," Potter had said and they both had laughed. Draco had not begun to enjoy it, but now his hatred took energy he could not spare. In the early days he had hoped for escape, or at least a chance to die on his feet. Now he had almost forgotten how it felt to hope. When they were not there he lay in the corner of his cage and dreamed of death, black men on white horses.

There was no way out. He would die in the dark, alone, and no one would mourn him. He had wept, in the beginning; now tears were beyond him. He had screamed, then, in agony. Now that pain seemed to have happened to another person. Surely he had been here forever. There was nothing outside his cage for him.

They brought him news that his father was dead. Murdered in Azkaban by Voldemort--Dumbledore had failed Draco there as elsewhere. Or perhaps this was Draco's failure, too; perhaps on his disappearance Dumbledore had simply withdrawn all of his protections and let Lucius die. It did not matter; Draco could not imagine it had ever mattered. Not really.

Sometimes it seemed that they forgot to feed him, or they would feed him twice as much and if he ate it all at once he would go hungry after. They never spoke to him, or even of him, unless they were in the cage with him. It was as if he were a piece of the furniture. Eventually they would forget him all together, or he would forget himself. He slept a great deal of the time, and when he was awake he recited spells to himself, or poetry, lines from plays. They had all begun to run together, but it seemed the words were enough. He was only a toy, and if he were too badly broken, they might throw him away.

Finally, when had begun to think they had lost interest in him all together, they devised a new game. They fed him potions, or Muggle drugs, or both together, and watched to see what happened to him. Some of the things had beautiful names: Ecstasy, Ice, Angel Dust, Bella Donna, Nightflower. Some of them made him hallucinate, some of them gave him seizures, some of them had no effect on him at all. Those they forced on him in larger doses, in different combinations. Finally they hit on one that made him prophesy. They did not like it when he foretold Longbottom's death, but when he was dead their expressions changed. He saw the excitement they tried to suppress. What a weapon this would make. But they could not get him to do it reliably and when they increased the dose he only threw it up.

They tried it on one another. On Potter it had no effect at all. And a slightly larger dose sent Smith into convulsions. Draco watched, careful to keep himself from smirking, as they Apparated him to St. Mungo's. They were gone for a very long time and when they came back their faces were white and shaken. He knew that Smith was dead.

They sat at the table and played cards and drank, and when they were very drunk they wept for Smith, or perhaps for themselves, as they had not wept when Longbottom had died. Then they sat in their much smaller circle--if indeed three men could make a circle--and talked in quiet voices. Once or twice they looked over their shoulders at Draco, but even when they were not looking it was so pointed he knew they were speaking of him. He ignored them, because after all, what was there left that they could to him? He hoped they were talking of killing him, and that they would choose a quick way of doing so. Poison, or the knife, or a gun with a single bullet and leaving him sealed in the dark soundproof basement.

Eventually they went away. Only Potter came back, and he brought with him a tall man with hair that gleamed red even in the dimness. Draco knew who it was, of course; everyone knew who Charlie Weasley was. Before Potter had ever used a broom for anything but sweeping, he had been a legend in the junior Quidditch ranks. Once Draco had dreamed of being Charlie Weasley--even of being Harry Potter--and now he turned his head away and pretended not to notice that they had come in.  
The door of his cage rattled opened and Weasley worked a quick Lumos. Draco squeezed his eyes shut against the sudden brightness. "What happened to him?" Weasley demanded, kneeling and closing his fingers around Draco's wrist as if he were feeling for a pulse. "Harry? Who did this to him?"

Draco wanted more than anything to pull away, but he forced himself to hold still. It didn't make sense to resist, not when resistance meant a beating, at best, and more likely a beating and then the other thing. Potter liked him to fight back. But Potter was saying, "I don't--we found him this way, is all," in the sullen voice of a spoiled child caught shoplifting.

"What's wrong with him? He looks like he's been through the wars! You don't have any idea who he is, or where he came from? Seamus doesn't?"

"No."

"He looks like he'd be your age, more or less. He must not have been at Hogwarts, though, if you don't know him?" Draco, who knew Potter was lying, could hear the second of hesitation; Weasley apparently could not. "This whole place is so heavily warded, I just don't get it."

Potter sighed. "Me either," he said. "But Charlie--the visions? I think that's the most important thing right now."

"Right," Weasley said. "You just found him this way, he just happened to be in a cage in Seamus's apartment, naked except for his cloak and beaten half to death. And he asked you for an aspirin and you accidentally gave him poison and illegal Muggle drugs instead, and then he happened to foresee the future."

"We did it, then, is that what you wanted to hear? That we did it to him? We did this to him, Charlie. And--I don't know how to make it go away."

"Make it go away, is it, Harry? You want me to make it go away? Get out of here, Harry Potter. You are lucky you are the boy who cannot be killed!" Draco heard the door slam and risked opening his eyes a tiny bit. Potter was gone. The door to the cage stood open, and there was only Weasley between Draco and freedom. Draco held himself very still as Weasley let go his wrist and ran gentle fingers over the bad side of his face. "Who are you?" Weasley asked softly, and Draco realized that the words were meant for him. Despite himself he tensed and felt Weasley flinch back. He rolled, got his feet under him, and staggered for the door and the world.

Weasley caught him, of course, when he was barely past the confines of the cage. He whispered something, a spell Draco did not recognize. The darkness rose from the floor like a cloud, and it overwhelmed him. He had thought the Killing Curse meant a flash of green light.


	2. II

When he woke it was morning and the sun was shining. Severus Snape stood beside his bed, a black shape against the brightness. "Good morning, Mr. Malfoy," he said formally. "Do you know where you are?"

Draco turned his head, which hurt, and looked around. "The infirmary," he answered. "I don't understand, Professor. Did something happen during the match?" Did I win, he wanted to ask. Who had they been playing? How could he not remember? He could remember the green of the field beneath him, rising up to meet him, and nothing else.

"How old are you, Mr. Malfoy?" Snape asked, and there was something odd about the words—about the tone, or the phrasing, or just Snape's expression, which might almost have passed for concern.

"I—I'm seventeen," he answered. Snape should have known, he never forgot his students' birthdays. Why hadn't he known?

Snape turned to look out the window. His back to Draco, he began, "No, Mr. Malfoy, you are eighteen years old. You are a spy for Dumbledore's Army, as am I. Don't interrupt me, please, Mr. Malfoy," although Draco had in fact said nothing. "This will be difficult enough for both of us without that. You are eighteen years old, and you have been, since your Hogwarts graduation, a spy code-named Goblin. You served the Army by passing on information from Death Eater meetings, and in return Dumbledore ensured that your father, while a prisoner in Azkaban, received—certain privileges. I assume you do not remember any of this?"

Draco shook his head mutely, but Snape did not turn to see his reaction. After a moment he resumed his narrative, his voice cold and his words deliberate.

"Three months ago, Mr. Malfoy, Voldemort determined that certain of my recent actions had not been in his best interests. He felt it necessary to—interrogate me about those actions. Unfortunately his interrogations are often painful, and always fatal. You, Mr. Malfoy, recruited several officers of Dumbledore's Army to—rescue me. The effort's success was at best qualified; while I was freed, you were yourself taken. Nevertheless, Mr. Malfoy, rest assured that I am grateful."

"Your rescue mission alerted Voldemort that Dumbledore was aware of the position of the Death Eater stronghold, and he immediately fled to a different part of the country. He took you with him. Much of the intervening time has been spent attempting to trace him. Six days ago we at last learned his new locality. Potter bravely led a team in, and managed to secure your release, though Zachary Smith was slain in the endeavor. You have Potter and Finnegan to thank for your freedom."

Draco stood up, slowly and painfully as an old man. The green of the Quidditch field, but a part of him could remember thinking that it hadn't been green but black. And a part of him had wanted to fall forever, as if death were not an answer but the answer. They had been playing Ravenclaw—no, Cho Chang had graduated and this year's team was worse than ever. They had been playing Hufflepuff, he was almost sure of it. But his face in the mirror looked anything but certain. It was an old man's face, thin and white, with cheekbones sharp as daggers and blood shot gray eyes. His hair was long, longer than he had ever worn it, and tangled, the ends ragged. His nose was a little crooked and his left hand was bandaged. It was not Draco Malfoy in the mirror, but Goblin, and the trouble was Draco could not make the two meet, not even in his head.

Snape was standing behind him, not touching him. Draco watched him in the mirror but didn't turn. He had never seen the man so troubled. "My father is dead," he said, and although he did not know why he had spoken them he knew the words were true.  
"Yes," Snape confirmed. "Mr. Malfoy—Draco—you were a prisoner for a very long time. You were tortured, and you endured it very bravely. You are a hero. You did not betray Dumbledore or the Army despite the—persuasions—that were applied. Unfortunately some of those persuasions were so extreme, so brutal, that we, that is those of us involved in your healing—feared that the memory of them would be too much for your mind. They—we—worked a series of Oubliette spells, in order to make you forget. The knowledge is there, but it will reveal itself to you when your mind is prepared for it."

"Regarding your father—Lucius is dead. Dumbledore did his best to protect him, but Voldemort got through his safeguards. No one could have done more, Draco, or regretted the failure more. Over time, you will remember the other events of the last year. If you should need to talk about them with someone, I am sure Dumbledore will be available to you."

Draco stared at him. It was as if he'd been told a story about someone else entirely; he could not connect himself to the events Snape had described. So he had been a hero, had he, and Potter had rescued him. It had been Gryffindor, he remembered now, that they'd been playing. It was Potter's fault he was here. He shook his head a little, trying to reconcile himself to the fact that he'd lost a year of his life. "I don't—" he began to say. I don't understand, I don't want to play this game, I don't believe you. But he did believe, and something in him remembered and was glad to have forgotten. Whatever it was that had happened to him, it had been very bad.

"Sit down," Snape told him, but gently. "There was too much damage to be healed all at once. It's going to take you weeks to get your strength back." Draco stepped back and sat on the chest at the end of the bed. Snape poured tea from a tray on a side table, mixing in just the right amounts of milk and sugar. Draco watched him, wondering if he and Snape had grown close, the year they had spent serving Voldemort in Dumbledore's name. Had they been friends? Had he still called the man Professor? Snape stirred something from a small vial into the cup, making no attempt to hide the gesture. Poison? Or some kind of medication? Draco took the tea from him, awkward using his right hand.

The tea was very hot, and tasted faintly of whatever it was Snape had put in it. Draco sipped it and watched him straighten pillows, smooth sheets. When Snape had done, he took the cup and helped Draco up and into bed. Draco went, wordless and suddenly exhausted. Snape put a hand on his forehead, but gently, and Draco mustered all of his energy and caught the other man's wrist in his good hand and did not let go.

"What did you give me?" he asked very softly, applying as much pressure as he could.

Snape did not flinch. "It will help you sleep."

"And why is there no one here but you?"

"I am a trained medi-wizard," Snape answered. "Since I am no longer of use as a spy, I have been reassigned here." Draco recognized the sarcasm that edged his voice, though he had not noticed its absence. "We—Dumbledore, Pomfrey and I—thought it would be best not to overwhelm you at the start. And it is only fair to add, they have other duties, where I do not. As soon as you are well enough you will receive your own quarters."

Draco let him go; it was all he could do to keep his eyes open, to force out a final question. "What's wrong with me?"

Snape did not pretend to misunderstand. "Broken ribs, which have been healed." he began. "Internal injuries, which have nearly been healed, head trauma, which healed on its own for the most part, several minor burns and a not so minor infection, cleared up except for a few small scars, a broken cheekbone which is no longer really noticeable. A broken nose, which unfortunately was not set and is thus a bit crooked. Broken fingers, badly set and re-broken, which will have to heal naturally. The effects of malnourishment, which will clear up over time. Your wand was broken, and sometimes that affects a wizard adversely. And the damage to your mind, of course; that is something only you can fully comprehend and deal with. But there is nothing—nothing—nothing that has been done to you that will not heal, given time and care. You were lucky, Mr. Malfoy. I suggest you remember that."

Draco pulled the blankets up to his chin and went to sleep without answering. He dreamed of green fields and golden sun, of the day his father had taught him to fly. When he woke it was dark and he was crying. He wiped his eyes on his hand and his hand on the sheet. There was a glass of water by his bed, a handful of pills; he swallowed them all at once and this time slept until morning.

There was no hot water for his bath and Pomfrey insisted on giving him a thorough examination. Draco did as he was told, and when she left him she left a pile of clothes that she said was his uniform, and a slender steel dress sword, and a pair of black boots. He dressed slowly and carefully, one-handed, and the uniform adjusted itself to fit him. He felt strange in it, like someone else, as he had not felt strange in his body. He felt like Goblin, and Goblin was someone he did not want to be, someone whose life had been so horrific it was best forgotten.

When Snape came to take him to lunch he was still struggling to belt on his sword. Snape moved to help him and Draco pulled away. There was some reason, he was sure, that he did not want Snape to touch him. The other man waited, without commenting, until he finished. Then he led Draco down a dark, narrow corridor toward a twisting staircase. Draco stopped short. He had thought they were at Hogwarts and now he did not know where they were. The walls seemed to be moving closer together. He hated being trapped, and he hated this house; he could not remember ever having been here before. "I don't—," he began.

"We'll be late," Snape said impatiently. "What is it?"

Draco didn't know how to tell him. It was like trying to describe sex to a virgin, that same hopeless feeling. "I don't like the dark," he answered after a moment. "What is this place?"

"Merlin," Snape muttered, and then, "Lumos!" Though his wand was nowhere in sight, a faint steady light illuminated the hallway. "This, Mr. Malfoy, is the headquarters of the Order of the Phoenix, the intelligence division of Dumbledore's Army. An oxymoron, if you will." He began walking again, and this time Draco followed. The light made a difference; it made it a tunnel and not a cage, and Draco was glad when they reached the end. He trailed Snape down three flights of steps, and into a bright and airy room full of tables and people, not unlike the Great Hall at Hogwarts. Snape stopped before the table on the dais, and inclined his head. It was not a bow, but it was very much a gesture of respect, and Draco wondered what Dumbledore had done to earn it.

The old man stood slowly and painfully, and Draco realized that he was all but crippled. He held a jeweled cup in a hand that trembled so that the wine slopped over the rim, and his voice shook as he called out, "Draco Malfoy! May all our heroes come back to us!" Draco had time to think that it was Dumbledore's usual brand of nonsense, before there was a roar of approval and everyone present was standing to drink his health. Draco pinched himself but was disappointed to find that he was not, in fact, sleeping. He had always dreamed of glory, but this was something else again.

Snape pulled him toward a half empty table and Draco sat and began to pile far too much food on his plate. He could not remember the last time had eaten, in itself enough to kill his appetite. The others at the table stared at him, and one by one Snape told him their names and positions. Most of the names, at least, he knew, and he wondered if he were about to be the butt of a very bad joke. He had only Snape's word that any of this was real. It was Potter who convinced him.

Potter came up to him and put out his hand, and Draco took it, a bit reluctantly. When their hands touched he felt as if time, an unreliable bitch at best, had stopped all together. Something about Potter made him feel either aroused or afraid, and he could not be sure which, or even sure it was not both. Surely, he had no reason to fear Potter, not when they were allies. Potter had saved his life. But he could not remember ever having been attracted to a man before, much less to this man, and that was enough to make him very afraid indeed.

He spent the next several weeks recovering, regaining his strength and his courage both. As the others grew more used to his presence he was able to observe them almost unremarked. It must have been similar to what he had done as a spy, it felt so right to him. He noticed that time had been very kind to Ginny Weasley's figure, and that Granger was given to weeping in corners and invoking the name of the sainted Ronald. He noticed that Harry Potter frequently looked shifty, and that he often sought out Draco's presence. Had they been friends? An awkward question to have to ask; Draco was afraid to ask for fear of an affirmative answer. Dean Thomas appeared to be ill and Seamus Finnegan had been sent home to Ireland in disgrace, though no one knew why. The intelligence division of Dumbledore's Army was like a large and enormously dysfunctional family, with half the members not speaking to the other half.

Draco was not sure whether they were winning the war or not. He had been drafted to act as Snape's assistant in the development of a crucial new divining potion. Snape had offered him a full share in the credit, and Draco had agreed, though he disliked potions in principle and Snape in practice; the offer, while inexplicable, had been too good to pass up. As time passed and his body healed, his days grew shape and color. Mornings on the field, learning and relearning the skills a soldier needed, afternoons working to perfect the potion Snape swore had been his invention, nights haunted by dreams he would not remember when he woke. Always Potter, at his heels, waiting for him to betray himself and reveal the Death Eater in his heart. He was on their side but he would never be one of them, not really.

It was the dreams that were the worst, because he could not stop himself screaming and he woke, throat raw and painful, to an audience as weary of him as he was of himself. He was going mad, and he knew it and they knew it; a fine hero he would make from behind glass at St. Mungo's. Sometimes it seemed to him he almost remembered what it was they had done to him, and those times were the worst. He could not reconcile the memories and the dreams with the story Snape had told him.

Worst of all was the feeling that everyone else knew something that he did not. He walked in on a number of whispered conversations, and they always stopped as soon as he was seen. All of the pieces added up to nothing, and yet he wondered if there was a picture he could not see. Snape, saying to Dumbledore that it was unfair Finnegan be punished in Potter's stead, and Dumbledore replying that they dared not discipline Harry further until the war was over. Charlie Weasley, telling Potter that it was not what his brother would have wanted. And two nameless, faceless men who had done something to him, something so terrible he could not be allowed to remember it.

He hated them, he hated himself; he wanted to be one of them and he hated the thought of it. He was glad when they began to send him out with the others, on brief missions he found incomprehensible and possibly pointless, but satisfying. They went in teams to fetch items for spells, Obliviate Muggles, and test weaponry. The teams were rotated occasionally, and eventually he went out with Dean Thomas, Ginny Weasley, and Harry Potter. It was uncomfortable, given that Potter and Thomas weren't speaking, Potter and Weasley were dating, and Thomas seemed afraid of Draco. When they came back they were all wet, muddy, and angry; the new crossbow bolts had failed to impress the kappas. Potter sent them to change, with orders to meet for debriefing at the Griffin.

Draco met Thomas coming out onto Grimmauld Place. There was no tactful way to avoid traveling together but Thomas looked as if he wished there were. Draco was almost glad to see the rest of the group, though there was something about the Unlucky Griffin he had always disliked. Potter drank there often, with his particular group of friends, and they always sat in the same booth in the back. The bar was done in red and gold, and there were crepe-draped portraits of the glorious Gryffindor dead along one wall. Draco wondered if Oliver Wood's family was disappointed at his choice of careers.

"What went wrong tonight?" Potter asked when they had all gotten their drinks and were seated. Beside him Weasley squirmed and said nothing; next to Draco Thomas stared into his drink. Draco wondered what it was he wanted to hear; if he could guess he'd shorten everyone's evening. But the only thing that came to him was the truth and when he was satisfied the others were not going to answer he told it.

"Nothing went wrong," he said carefully. "Our orders were to test the arrows on a kappa and we did so. Mission accomplished, from our perspective. It is true that there were certain failures: that there were a number more kappas than we expected, that they were not where they were supposed to be, and that silver is not in fact effective on them. These are failures in intelligence, for which our commanders, presumably, are responsible."

Potter frowned. "Thank you, Malfoy. I will be glad to report that. To, presumably, our commanders." Without prompting, Thomas went to buy another round of drinks. As he was passing them around Potter continued. "The thing is, permanent teams are going to be assigned soon. I've requested that the three of you be allotted to me, but if we can't get along better than this it won't work out."

Thomas dropped his tray with a crash. "Why?" he demanded.

"Because you're the best," Potter answered simply. Draco knew that it was the truth. It didn't mean they had to like it.

By last call they were all very, very drunk. Draco, who was soberest, settled the enormous tab and packed the others into their coats. He kissed Weasley amiably on the cheek and watched as she Portkeyed home, and turned to look at his companions. They would never manage to Apparate to London in their current state; they would be lucky to manage the Knight Bus without disgracing themselves. He whistled for a cab and was relieved when one came. It was difficult, packing first Thomas and then Potter in, but he supposed it could be considered a team-building exercise. Fortunately, the driver knew London well and was able to Apparate them all to the park near headquarters without trouble. Draco handed him the last of his cash and turned up his collar against the rain. As he herded his charges before him, he was glad to see they seemed to have forgotten their quarrel. He was even gladder to see Finch-Fletchley, Thomas's roommate, having a cigarette in the garden behind headquarters, and handed over his teammate without a qualm.

Draco's quarters were on the fourth floor, and Potter's on the third; Draco never made the climb without wondering why the original occupants could not have sprung for an elevator. He was almost carrying Potter by the end of the first flight; at Potter's corridor his recently healed ribs burned and his head ached. He charmed the door open and pushed Potter inside. The other man was limp as a doll, unresisting as Draco undressed him and dragged him toward his bed. He dropped him face up, then thought better of it and rolled him onto his side.

He turned to go but Potter caught a handful of his cloak and pulled. More annoyed than amused, Draco turned back. "What do you want?" he asked.

"Come here," Potter commanded, beckoning him closer. Draco moved back to the side of the bed and knelt. Potter's mouth crushed his. He tasted unpleasantly of alcohol and he kissed with a desperation that made Draco think of Luna Lovegood, at the end of his sixth year.  
He pulled away, wiping his mouth on his sleeve, and said, disgusted, "Sleep it off."

He was too tired even to change, and he went to sleep in his boots and cloak, on top of the blankets. He dreamed he was in a cage, lying on his back; he dreamed that Potter and Finnegan raped him while he fought to keep from screaming. They liked it when he screamed. When he woke he remembered everything.


	3. III

He was fully dressed; he only needed to belt on his sword, and he was ready. He went slowly down the stairs, trying to think what to do when he got there. Potter's door was ajar, just as he had left it. Draco pushed it open and slid quietly inside. Potter was sleeping heavily, his mouth open. Draco drew his sword and laid it along the edge of that white throat, and then withdrew it. If he killed Potter he was dead, they would not let him walk away. He sheathed the sword and went out into the hallway, pulling the door shut so that the lock clicked.

Draco stood in the hallway, concentrating on breathing, until somewhere down the hallway another door opened and Snape emerged. He grabbed Draco's arm and twisted it hard, pulling him into one of the bedrooms and shoving him down on the bed. He let go, then, and stood looking down at Draco. "You know what they did to me," Draco said to him.

"Did you think you were the first man in the world to be raped, Malfoy?"

Draco turned over on the bed, and pressed his face into the blankets. He did not even try to stop himself from crying. After a while Snape came and sat beside and stroked his back, gently and awkwardly. He cried until he was sick on Snape's floor, and Snape helped him to the bathroom and said resignedly that at least it hadn't been the duvet.

He sat on the edge of the tub while Draco knelt beside the toilet, and his hand on Draco's shoulder was like an anchor. No one had touched him since he'd been freed, except from necessity. It was only now that Draco realized he'd missed it. Eventually Snape began to talk to him; eventually Draco even began to listen. "It's okay," he was saying, "It's going to be okay." Draco did not believe him but he found the sound of his voice reassuring. They spent the remainder of the night on the bathroom floor, curled under Snape's duvet. Draco slept for a few minutes at a time, and woke screaming. Snape did not sleep at all.

In the morning Draco took a shower, very long and very hot, and alone for the first time in hours. Snape had complimented him on dealing so well with everything and Draco wondered which of them he had been trying to fool. He had yet to deal with any of it. He dressed, putting on his uniform like a knight donning armor, and pulled open the curtains. It was very early still, and the sky was a pale sullen grey. He buckled his sword and went out to meet Snape.

They went to breakfast in the Muggle part of London, the kind of place where the waitresses did not ask questions, and when they had finished eating Snape said, "It's time we talked about what it is that happens next."

Draco put down his fork. "What happens next?" he asked.

Snape sighed. "That is up to you, Malfoy. You can ambush Potter in an alley, or challenge him to a duel, or walk away, or we can wipe your memory again and keep wiping it until there's nothing left of your mind. This time you get to decide."

Part of his spy training, and no doubt Snape's as well, had been dealing with fidgeting. No making faces, no fiddling with the forks or the jam packets, no cigarettes if your hands weren't steady. Draco's were, absolutely steady, as he lit a Silk Cut and inhaled. When you have been held prisoner, starved and beaten and gang-raped, force-fed drugs, and everyone knows about it but you; that is when words stop hurting you. "Nice of you to let me choose."

"We didn't expect it to come up this quickly," Snape admitted. "You must have incredible resources to have dealt with it so well."

"Why did you do it this way? Surely it would have been easier to let me die?"

Snape met his eyes. "Harry was very concerned that you have every chance to survive."

"I see," Draco answered. He stood up, remembering as he did so that he hadn't any cash. Snape's problem. "Thank you for the choice. I'll walk. Best of luck with everything."

"Malfoy—Draco—wait, please. Hear me out?"

"If you tell me will you have to kill me?"

Snape didn't smile. "Sit down, please. None of this is classified."

Draco sat. "Talk, then."

"Your first instinct was to kill Potter. It's understandable, even laudable. However—. It's come to our attention that there exists what seems to be a true prophecy, one of which Voldemort is not aware. Only Potter will be able to kill Voldemort." Draco missed the ashtray and put out his cigarette on the plastic tablecloth. Snape waved the smoke away, and with it the smell of burning plastic. "If you go up against Potter before Voldemort dies we will have to kill you, Draco, because we cannot risk losing Potter."

"So that's what this has been about? All of it? About saving Potter?"

Snape began to talk. Draco listened, watching the morning traffic in London. They were sorry, of course. Everyone was sorry. They hadn't ever meant for this to happen. Somewhere they'd gone wrong with Harry, spoiled him too much, loved him too little. They'd made him a monster and now they didn't know how to stop him. They need him alive because they needed him to win the war.

That was where Draco came in; he was necessary to keep Harry happy. A large percentage of the Order's efforts were directed to keeping Harry happy. Harry'd been different when he'd had Draco to come home to, quieter and easier. Draco thought he might be sick. The ruthlessness of it both appalled and fascinated him. He could still remember how badly he'd wanted to be friends with Harry Potter, when he was eleven. He'd thought being friends with them would make things different for him than they had been for his father. He'd thought he could be one of them. Now that he was, he wasn't so sure it was a victory.

After a while Draco lit another cigarette. It was only when Snape stopped speaking, abruptly, that he realized he'd been speaking at all. "What is it you want?" he asked.

"I want the war to be over," Snape said, pinching one of his cigarettes. "I want to invent a Potion that cures cancer and patent it and make a million Galleons. I want my best student and former prefect to listen to me."

"I heard what you were saying," Draco admitted, "I'm just not sure where I come in. Right now I'm having a hard time seeing where Potter is any better than Voldemort."

"Dumbledore believes that certain of Potter's less—attractive—qualities are an inheritance from Voldemort. His temper, and presumably his tendencies toward sadism."

"Really?" Draco asked. "And what did Voldemort get from Potter? His temper? His sanity? His ability at Quidditch? That's thestraalshit, Snape, and you know it."

Snape's mouth twitched. "For what it is worth," he said, "I agree. If anyone is responsible for what Potter has become it is the adults whose responsibility he should have been. We alternated neglect with indulgence, and we taught him that he is not answerable for his actions."

"So it's not his fault."

"You see how easy it is, to make excuses for him. Even I, who despise him… If we had not been so harsh, so forgiving, if we had taken or given more points than we did. But I know as well as you that in the end all there is of a man is his actions."

"He saved you, though," Draco said, finally. "That's the part I don't understand."

"They beat you and raped you and left you to rescue me. They knew you were a spy; Finnegan told me you knew the code, the passwords. They thought they'd have some fun with you, but they went too far. There are certain lines—once you cross them, there is no turning back. That would have been one such line, for them. They could hardly return you to Dumbledore, having done what they did; how could they have justified such a thing? They used your hair to make a Polyjuice Potion, and rescued me from Voldemort's dungeons. They reported you captured, and when our remaining spy could not locate you we prayed you were dead. Make no mistake, Draco; Potter is a sociopath, but Voldemort is a thousand times worse. Potter broke your body, but Voldemort would have torn your mind apart. There is more than one way to rape a man."

"What did he do to you?" Draco asked, well aware of the impertinence of the question.

But Snape answered him with a sour smile. "Nothing. He hadn't time; he likes prisoners to anticipate their fates. Don't you see? You saved me, after all."

"I'm glad," Draco responded, and he was.

"It doesn't explain why they came back for me," Snape said, throwing a wad of bills on the table. "It doesn't explain how a man can transition from sadism to altruism so quickly, of course."

He's not sane, Draco almost told him. Maybe he never was. But Snape knew. Snape had suspected all along, when everyone else had fawned over the boy wonder. Maybe it was exposure to Voldemort, or an effect of the failed Killing Curse, or his parents' deaths or his shitty childhood. Maybe there was something more fundamental wrong. Instead he asked Snape what happened next.

Keep him happy, was all Snape had to say, give him what he wants. Don't let him hurt you, don't let him hurt anyone else. Keep him busy, and as healthy as you can, bring him to the last battle intact so that he can destroy Voldemort and we can put him down like the rabid dog he is.

It was a terrible and wretched thing they asked of him, and Draco knew that he could do it. More, he wanted to do it. For the first time in his life he felt he was a part of something worth doing, an integral and necessary part.

He began immediately, sitting close to the grey-faced Potter at lunch, laughing when the others laughed, smiling when Potter looked his way. It was not so different than sitting at Voldemort's table or his father's. He let Potter light his cigarette, commented on Potter's silver Muggle lighter as if he'd only just noticed it. And when, one by one, the othes had drifted away to their duties, he confided in Potter that he wanted to be part of team being formed.

Potter's smile transformed his face; Draco looked away and did not think of cold concrete under his back, the sound his fingers had made when they broke, the taste of Potter's piss. Instead he told Potter about the Potions research he was doing with Snape and watched the smile disappear. He hoped Potter was thinking of the way Smith had died, the white foam that had dried on the corners of his mouth. He had not hated Smith the most, but he had not minded watching him choke, either.

They arranged to meet for a drink after Draco's guard shift and drifted apart. Draco was gloomily aware that Potter thought he'd been hinting for a date. Which was, sadly, more or less true. The whole thing was faintly nauseating. He wandered up to Snape's lab and set about mashing up Muggle pills, assigning each an identity as one of the junior officers in the Resistance.

It was less theraputic than he had hoped it would be. When Snape called him over to assist he went gladly. "Is there any real point to this?" he asked, staring at the rows of vials.

"If you mean, does this potion work," Snape answered, "the answer is, probably. In the right concentration, it does inflict prophetic visions on wizards of pure blood. With prolonged exposure, it also simulates the efffects of a brain tumor in wizards of less than pure blood. Hence the death of Zachary Smith."

Lovely, Draco wanted to say. You've come up with another way to kill people. It seemed rather silly, really. Poison was hardly useful in the middle of a war. It was unlikely they'd be able to expose Voldemort to this new wonder drug even if Snape managed to complete it in time. Potions was an exact, and exacting, science, and it gave Draco an enormous headache.

Before he left to meet Potter Draco dressed with the careful precision of an officer joining a superior for a slightly illicit drink. His uniform had been freshly pressed, and his boots gleamed. The candlelight reflected on his medals was blinding; his hair, just cut and still damp from the shower, curled at his collar, and the look in his eyes would have suited a man going to be executed. Snape had given him some sort of tranquilizers, but they had steadied neither his nerves nor his hands.

He was eighteen years old, and his father was dead, and he had never been kissed by a man before. He had not known what to expect, but he had known he would not like it. Draco had had fast, and he had had furious; he had even had, memorably, Aunt Bellatrix. But Harry Potter hated him, and Draco had never imagined what it was like to be kissed that way. Potter's mouth was harder and rougher than any girl's, dangerous and angry. He kissed like a man who wanted something Draco did not have to give. He had had Draco fighting, and now he wanted Draco willing.

Draco could not manage passion, but submission was within his power. He did what he was told, and was aware that Potter was trying to be gentle. He did not think that either of them enjoyed it very much, which was puzzling; Potter had seemed to find rape pleasant enough. Draco had never found failure so satisfying. He had begun to hope he would be sent home in disgrace, but Potter was far from through with him.

Potter had always needed to share his trophies; Draco could remember the trouble there had been over the Triwizard Cup. They went to breakfast together, and he knew that everyone present was aware of where he'd been. It was not something he'd considered, mostly because he'd not had time to consider any of it. He did not like the heedful looks they gave him: the wonder on their faces, that he should have managed to cultivate a taste for rape. They did not know that he knew. He had asked Snape what the differnce was, between Potter's side and Voldemort's. Snape had not answered him.

After breakfast they went back to bed. It was not successful, or very comfortable. It seemed to involve a great deal of sweating and swearing on Potter's part, and lip-biting and wincing on Draco's. He was grateful that, lying flat with his face pressed to the pillows, he could not be expected to comment on the proceedings, or forced to watch Potter's face. Whatever Snape had given him the night before had worn off, and now he felt dizzy and dangerously close to hysteria.

When it was over he made excuses he was not sure Potter believed, and fled, trying not to limp. Draco was not sure where they'd gone wrong, only that they must have done. Otherwise there was no distinction between sex and rape but intent. He showered and changed and went down to the garden to have a cigarette, and ended up talking to Ginny Weasley. She was a pretty girl, and the thin cotton tank top she wore under her uniform left little to be imagined. It occurred to Draco that it would not be hard to persuade her to go to bed with him; she was purportedly Potter's girlfriend and was probably feeling neglected. He could have had her; there would have been a strange sort of equity to it.

He did not want her. He did not want anyone, could not even remember the last time he had thought about it. He made his way slowly down to Snape's lab, stopping for a few minutes to sit on the stairs and think about it. He was eighteen, and his control over his body had always been dubious at best. There had been a time before Potter, when a significant portion of his time had been devoted to procuring female company, thinking about having sex, or in having sex. He could not remember the last time he'd had an erection.

Snape did not quite laugh, when Draco told him, but he said, "Last night you were terrified by the idea of it. Give it time."

Draco moved to the counter and began to set out the dozens of vials Snape would need. Carefully, in straight lines, like toy soldiers being sent out to die. He could feel Snape watching him, and he wondered whether it was the friend worrying, or the soldier. But Snape had never promised him anything and Snape was not his father. Snape wanted him to do his job, was all. He pressed his forehead against the cool glass of the cupboard door, suddenly exhausted.

Snape moved quietly behind him, a soft rustling of robes, as if he were worried Draco was going to knock over his precious jars. Draco stayed where he was, and Snape's words were so soft he almost missed them, so soft he was never sure he'd heard them at all. "What do you want, Draco?"

"I want Harry Potter to die," he said, and straightened up quickly, too quickly. His exhaustion caught up with him, all at once; he staggered and had to put a hand out to catch himself.

"Go to bed, Draco," Snape told him, and then flushed an angry red as he met Draco's eyes.

Without a word, Draco went, feeling as if he'd smashed all of the vials into shards.


End file.
